


our truce

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Daisy And Her Huge Crush On Coulson, Domestic, Drunkenness, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, Late Night Conversations, Music, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy and Coulson talk it over. Over some drinks.</p><p>(Post 3x04)</p>
            </blockquote>





	our truce

"I didn't want to leave it on an angry note," she says, holding up a bottle of scotch. "And I know May finished with your liquor stash back in the day so... Can I buy the Director a drink? As a sign of good will?"

Coulson drops his tablet on the desk and stares out at her and for a moment Daisy feels silly thinking this has been a bad idea, that this is the worst possible moment to – but no, he stands up and takes out two glasses from one of the drawers.

She takes a chair and drags it around, so she can sit near Coulson, across the corner of the desk, so they're close.

"Good stuff?" she asks, passing him the bottle.

"We'll see."

He pours, only a couple of fingers.

"I wish you had soda."

"Philistine," he says, swirling his drink.

"I don't like scotch."

"More for me."

"Oh no, we're drinking _together_ , that's the point."

This is fine, this is fun, Daisy can breathe because even through disagreements they manage to do this.

They spend a few minutes like this, drinking in a surprisingly easy silence. It hasn't been a particularly hard day, they have just clashed like they have been doing for the last couple of weeks. Same old story, ATCU overstepping, Coulson giving them more space than they should have, Daisy feeling her skin crawl in their presence, making her impatient, making her impatient with _Coulson_. It hasn't been a particularly hard day, just shitty and irritating. When he was looking for something to angry-eat in the kitchen she found one of Hunter's bottles in the bottom cupboard and thought " _why not_ ".

She imagined he wouldn't approve – Coulson doesn't seem the type to drink on _school nights_ so to speak – but here they are, sitting close and sipping the scotch slowly and there's this feeling of companionship to it, like a war movie scene. Coulson looks unhappy, and at least there's that.

"Why did you think Mack had told me? What did you tell Lincoln that day?" he asks all of the sudden.

"You're still thinking about that," she comments, a bit shocked. She imagined he had forgotten all about the exchange. They have had some eventful days since then.

"I don't know. It seemed like an odd thing for you to say," he says, meaning an odd thing for her _not to say_ , not to share with him. "You don't have to tell me."

"I kissed Lincoln, that's the first part of it."

She studies his face but other than taking a bit to respond to that Coulson's expression betrays nothing.

"That's what you didn't want me to know?" he asks. He's right, that sounds just odd, but a part of her didn't want him to know about the kiss, either.

"No," Daisy tells him. "And it wasn't that sort of – I was trying to get him to come with me." Coulson raises his eyebrow. "That sounds awful but I swear it's not as calculating as it... I care about him."

"Of course you do," Coulson says.

"But not like that."

"That's none of my business."

"Of course it," she says. Coulson frowns at her. That's not the point she's meant to be making. "Wait a moment."

She takes the bottle and pours for the two of them. This time it's more than a couple of fingers in the glass. She drinks until her cheeks feel hot and she watches Coulson follow her lead without question.

"That wasn't what I didn't want Mack to tell you," she explains.

"Oh."

"I wanted Lincoln to listen to me, let me help. So I told him he was the one who helped me when I tranformed, that he was _the one_ who made me feel like I wasn't a monster," she says, studying Coulson's face. He keeps it pretty neutral. But he's jaw is doing a thing. She's not sure what the thing means but there's definitely a thing going on.

He seems to think it over while he takes another sip.

"That wasn't true," Daisy explains, fearing she's not explaining herself very well. Maybe she should take another swing at her drink too. "I mean Lincoln helped, of course, but it wasn't just him, but it was everybody. It was my mother, the team, you."

" _Me_?"

He seemed surprised to be included.

She is not going to lie and tell him some story about how he's the only one who kept her sane, because that's not them, they don't lie to each other, and she doesn't need to embellish the story and her cheeks sting with heat right now and Coulson might just be one of the many pieces of the puzzle but she wishes she can make him see what a vital one he is.

"You told me that, deep down, I was still a red corvette," she says, biting her cheek. "If you remember."

For a moment she panics thinking he _won't_ remember, that's she's made it up as more important than it was in her mind, that Coulson just said that stuff and forgot all about it, and old demons kick in, about how she used to think she was fitting in with the people in her foster homes only to be sent back to the orphanage – then she remembers all that was a lie.

"Of course I remember," Coulson tells her.

He reaches his arm across the desk and takes Daisy's hand in his, brushing his thumb across the grooves of her knuckle, pausing to caress every finger, playful – oh boy, _he's drunk_. His touch is warm and surprisingly soft.

He brings Daisy's hand to his cheek and that's when Daisy realizes he must be actually _really_ drunk, not just tipsy like her. He's not a touchy person (neither is she, well, she likes being touched, of course, but it's complicated) and this is unusual but it's so nice, he presses her palm against his face and closes his eyes and doesn't let go for quite a while, and when he does it's slowly, caressing her fingers again on the way down.

She sits back, looking at him, amused, while they both take a moment and hide their expressions behind their glasses.

"It's been a while since I've heard you play any record," she says, throwing a glance to the player behind her.

"We've been a bit busy," Coulson replies.

"We're not busy _now_."

She goes to the corner of the room and starts playing whatever Coulson left in there the last time. Predictably some sad, slow jazz track starts filling the room. Coulson uses the pause to get them a refill. Daisy notices the bottle is down to a shameful amount of liquor. She doesn't care.

"Nice tune," she comments, as they both sit their asses on the desk, shoulder to shoulder.

"It's Chet Baker," Coulson tells her, handing her the glass.

"I know. I'm not a total savage, you know."

"I know," he says, way too apologetically to her joke.

She has the vague idea of what if they were to dance to this? It's stupid, of course, it's ridiculous, he's Coulson and they are kind of crossed with each other, aren't they?

"Does it really bother you that I call Rosalind by her first name?" he asks.

It's all surprises with him tonight. All being direct about stuff when he normally isn't. Not about "stuff" anyway.

"It took me two years until you'd let me call you _Phil_."

"It's different," he says, frowning. "You were part of my team, there are certain boundaries. Ros – Price is just, it's just work."

"Boundaries, uh?"

She knows all about boundaries.

"You're in my life, we're close. You calling me Coulson or Phil, that's not what's important."

"I know," she sighs, remembering she doesn't drink because it makes her moody. "I know I'm being irrational here."

"You're not. She tried to – she hunted you down. You think I don't realize but I do. People like you, her team hunted people like you."

It's not that she didn't think he got it – she's pretty sure he gets everything. But it feels so good to hear it, his understanding.

She slaps her hand against his shoulder, friendly.

"You're very accommodating when you're drunk."

"You're very–" he mutters something Daisy can't hear, "when I'm drunk."

"I'm very what?"

"Very..."

He stands up from the desk and turns to face Daisy, hands on each side of her.

He kisses her hot and hungry and with abandon.

 _Just HOW drunk is he_ Daisy wonders idly before kissing back.

Because she kisses him back, wrapping her hands around his neck tentatively and she suddenly wants this so much and suddenly all the tension of these past few weeks, maybe months, takes on a different meaning and she _understands_ and she doesn't like scotch but she loves how it tastes on Coulson's mouth, with the soft jazz tune so far away in the background and heat buzzing in her ears, drowning everything out except the noises coming from her own lungs and Coulson's.

He mouth is hot and slippery on her neck, then her throat, then his hand slips under the fabric of her top for a moment.

It's a good thing she is a bit intoxicated (not so much that Coulson is an asshole for doing this, and she wonders if she's the asshole in the scenario, because it seems like he's way further along the road than she is) so the million complications she should be thinking about – she loves him, that's the first one, _she loves him_ and that's terrible – are just little insignificant dots in the back of her mind, silent, obediently tucked away while she enjoys this, she deserves this, okay, she's not sure about deserving, but she wants it. She lets him pressed his body against her, wrapping her legs around his waist to make sure he doesn't get away, forgetting how long it's been since the last time she felt like this, remembering Miles for a moment, his taste, his stubble against her mouth, so different, so long ago.

"This feels so good..." Coulson mutters against her ear, voice broken with desire and velvety with scotch at the same time.

Coulson keeps kissing her cheek, her jaw, the hollow of her neck and the birth of her shoulder while Daisy forgets how to move, how to reciprocate, wanting to scream _please, please, go on_ , arms flailing around his back until she settles her fingers against the back of his neck. He doesn't stop – he lets her bite his bottom lip hard when he manages to undo the buttons on her jeans (pretty skilled for a drunk guy, she has to say) and she lift her hips against his touch when he slides his hand under her clothes and slips one finger inside and in a moment everything around her feels amazing, the alcohol has taken off the edges of things and everything is soft and fucking _glorious_ and the only pressure she feels is the sweet, thick pressure at the bottom of her stomach every time Coulson moves his hand or moves his mouth over hers. 

Then everything slows down, it's gone, that soft liquid hot world she has lived in for a few wonderful moments. She feels Coulson stop, then slip away. He is looking at her, she _knows_ , but she doesn't want to look up yet.

"Shit," he mutters.

No no no, she thinks. Please don't regret this and please don't stop.

"I'm so sorry," he says. But she looks at his face and clearly what he regrets is _stopping_. "I don't feel well."

He suddenly looks so pale that Daisy forgets about kissing him and about feeling him between her legs and about his fingers and a wave of protectiveness washes over her. She's worried.

"Do you want me to take you to your quarters?" she asks.

He nods. "The bathroom."

 

+

 

Coulson is so out of it, generally, that he's not even noticing Daisy is caressing the short wet hair on the back of his neck. In the end he didn't throw up that much but they're sitting together on the floor of his private bathroom just in case. She's completely sober now and is staring at him with that magnanimity of sobered up people towards those still drunk. She remembers doing this for friends in the past – rubbing their backs like she's rubbing Coulson's now.

Things have taken a weird turn, and the tiled floor feels solid and cold and way too real under her ass. Not in a bad way, no. She drops her hand to the small of his back, amazed at how easily she believes the whole evening has actually happened. Tomorrow she might think it's been a dream.

"If we're being honest you're not the first guy who pukes after kissing me," she says, remembering something from a lifetime ago. Maybe she should tell him sometime. "Should I take it personally?"

He gives her a sideways amused glance.

"You're probably not supposed to see me like this," he tells her, invoking professional rules that never worked for them anyway.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you're probably not supposed to do what you did back in the office, _sir_."

Coulson chuckles to himself, "Yeah, you're right."

She helps him get up from the floor, grabbing him by the elbows. He tries his balance, seems solid enough, thanks her unnecessarily. She keeps

"Bed?" Daisy asks.

He shakes his head. "I have to – toothbrush," he tells her.

"Got it."

She raids the medicine cabinet for him, finding his brush and a tube of really expensive toothpaste. The whole cabinet, the stuff in there, is a sight to behold. And she thought Coulson was particular about suits...

"Wow, you're very big on personal hygiene," she comments.

"It's important," he says, mouth full of toothpaste, voice sing song and happy. "My mom always used to say – my mom said she was going to allow me to play sports as long as I didn't get sweaty and smelly like the other boys."

Daisy leans back against the sink, watching him floss. It's oddly endearing. "Your mother was a wise woman," she tells him.

"Yes, she was. I think about her every day," Coulson says and then stops, frowning at Daisy. "I think I'm still drunk."

"I think you might be, yes."

She takes his arm and leads him back to the next room.

"You want me to help you?" she gestures at his clothes.

"Yes, definitely."

She keeps expecting things to be awkward and maybe it's because they're both kind of still drunk but things keep not being awkward between them, even as she undoes the buttons of his shirt one by one.

"You're very nice to me," he says.

"Well, you're very nice to me, it's only fair," she says, smiling because she can imagine Coulson trying to help her out of her clothes if the situations were reversed and this guy, he'd totally do it.

"No, but, you've always been nice," he goes on. "That caught me by surprise. When I met – when we met. I was used to... uh."

Daisy peels the shirt off his arms with care. "What were you used to?"

"I was used to people forgetting I existed once I walked out of a room," Coulson tells her with drunken eloquence.

"There's little risk of that with me," she tells him. She wouldn't want him to have forgotten this in the morning so she tells herself to repeat it sometime when he's not drunk. How he's always on her mind.

The pants are a lot easier and Coulson becomes soft-limbed and pliant when she basically scoops him and drops him in his own bed. He seems helpless in that open way that reminds him of the first days after he lost his hand and went around discreetly asking people for help with his tie (Daisy did it a couple of times, it was awkward and only in retrospect she understands exactly _why_ ). She looks at her good work now: Coulson in t-shirt and boxers, eyes half closed and hair a mess as he stares out at her from his pillow.

"You mind if I crash with you too?" she asks. She wants to make sure he's all right through the night but she has to ask because she's being selfish too, she wants to sleep here, she wants to lie down next to him and his warmth and maybe his touch.

Coulson sighs. "Probably not supposed to... but I don't care." He gestures. "Come here."

It does things to her, hearing him say _come here_ while he beckons her to the bed. Beckons? Wow, her vocabulary improves when she gets tipsy.

"Thank you," she says, snuggling up to him under the covers, both lying on their sides, face to face. 

There's a bitter scent under the overwhelming smell of toothpaste and mouthwash as she gets closer. It feels even nicer thanks to her powers – she's still ambivalent about most of it, but she's beginning to love how it feels to be in people's presences, how distinctive their vibrations are. Falling asleep next to someone is something new and Coulson's vibrations feels like her body is being lapped by warm waves constantly.

"Do you regret having invited me to that drink?" Coulson asks. She can tell by his voice that he's sobering up at the same time he's starting to drift off from exhaustion.

"Oh no, I had a great time," she tells him.

"Me too," Coulson says, sounding like he hasn't had a good time in a real long time. That thought makes her sad. She wants Coulson to have a great time often. She wants to be the one who gives it to him.

Just being here in the same bed with another person, he can't know how much that means to Daisy.

"I'm sorry I didn't..." he gestures between them.

"Finish the job?" she offers.

"Yes. I was going to say. But... better put." She smiles openly at him. " _What?_

No, he still sounds a bit drunk.

"I was worried you were going to say you're sorry you _started_ the job in the first place."

"No, no, please," he says, wrapping his arm around Daisy's back and pulling her in, until he has his face pressed to her neck, muttering as he falls asleep, holding her. "I would never... It's you – I would never..."

This has gone quite differently than what she would have imagined drunkenly making out with Coulson would go (not that she's... okay, once or _twice_ ). She would have imagine guilt, regrets, _awkwardness_. Instead here they are, comfortably in bed, cuddling their drunkeness away in each other's arms.

 

+

 

They wake up at the same time, miraculously, and Daisy panics that maybe they overslept and people are looking for them and they have important stuff but – but she listens to the sounds around them and everything is vibrant quiet, like the base is on the verge of waking up.

"It's okay, it's still early," Coulson tells her, sensing her distress, looking at the clock on the bedside table.

She had forgotten how messy and wonderful it was waking up next to someone else.

"Good morning," she says, regretting the clumsy platitude immediately.

But Coulson grins widely at her. His eyes are a bit red and he looks a bit rough but he looks good and young and happy.

"Good morning," he replies.

"Is this okay?" she asks.

Thank god it's Coulson and she doesn't have to explain what _this_ means.

He nods.

She stretches over the mattress – she's woken up in basically the same position as last night, but with her arm lazily around Coulson's waist – and tries to press her mouth against his again, wondering if it'll feel as weird and good as she remembers from last night, wondering if it made a difference that they were drunk.

"Wait," Coulson says.

Daisy narrows her eyes at him. Don't stop, don't stop me, don't stop us.

" _What_?" then she realizes. "Ah, you want to brush your teeth again."

Coulson nods again.

"Your mother would be proud," she comments, pushing the bedsheets away.

They get up together. At some point during the night she took off her bra and kicked off her jeans to the floor. She feels weirdly unselfconscious about it right now. Coulson realizes he's slept with his prosthetic on and huffs, considers taking it off from what Daisy can see, but he probably decides brushing his teeth one hand would be too complicated.

"I can," he tells her, once they're in the bathroom and he's already at it. "But it'll take longer and I don't want to make you wait."

He smirks sweetly at her through the reflection in the mirror.

Then he sees himself in the mirror too and narrows his eyes at the guy there, wincing a bit when sleepiness clears out and he starts feeling his head pound. I know exactly how you feel, Daisy thinks.

"Hangover?" she asks, and chuckles slightly, pressing her fingers against Coulson's forehead, oberwhelmed by the need to touch him again, even if it's just a bit, even if she doesn't know what this all means, what he wants it to mean.

Coulson grabs her by the wrist, gently brushing his thumb against her pulse point as he puts his toothbrush away.

Then his expression changes and he pushes Daisy against the sink, lifting her up with one arm, fingers digging into her hip.

She is not wearing any pants (or a bra) so he just pushes her underwear aside and sinks two fingers into her easily and in seconds. A bit too sleepy to realize how wet she was already she moans loudly against his kiss. 

"Holy – _fuck_ ," she mouths soundlessly when he presses his thumb against her clit.

"I've got you," Coulson mutters, kissing her lightly when she starts to shiver in her arms. 

It feels different and a lot better than her recollections from last night in his office. His fingers feel a lot bigger somehow and Daisy climaxes around them without being completely awake just yet, with that Chet Baker tune suddenly popping in her head again. She laughs against his shoulder, smelling mouthwash and sex, as Coulson pulls his fingers out and strokes her a couple of times as she rides the aftershocks. Holy fuck, she repeats to herself. 

She slips down the counter, leaning against Coulson's chest as she can't quite trust her legs yet. It's nice there, Coulson is panting little tremors against her face.

He explains: "I just felt bad about..."

"Not finishing the job?"

She pushes him away to see what kind of face he makes.

"Yeah," he says with a bit of drawl and a slow smile to go with his relaxed I-just-gave-you-an-orgasm face.

"So what now?" she asks, feeling a bit ridiculous, trying to talk seriously like she's in her t-shirt and panties in the middle of Coulson's bathroom mere seconds after he just fingerbanged her.

"Now we have a tactical meeting with ATCU in forty minutes," Coulson reminds her.

Daisy gives him a hate face.

He replies by brushing the hair off her face in the sweetest possible way. Unfair. Specially because she can smell herself in his hands and the last thing she can focus on is work right now.

"Well, I can't promise you we're not going to keep clashing on this," he tells her, dropping his hand touching her arm gently. "Keep arguing."

Daisy nods, understanding.

"Can you promise that we'll talk it over afterward? Like we did last night?" she asks.

"That I can promise," Coulson replies and wraps his fingers around her arm, drawing her to him. He brings their mouth close, so close, but he doesn't kiss her yet, the moment sweetly delayed.

"Maybe not exactly like last night," she teases him, brushing her lips against his. "Maybe less throwing up?"

"That's _two_ promises, I'm not sure–"

He's such a clown so Daisy shut-up kisses him, not worrying about the meeting with ATCU and Dragon Lady anymore (well, maybe a bit worried, but for different reasons), not worrying about defining anything with Coulson right now or about complications or boundaries, not worrying about anything other than the fact that she feels happy for the first time in a really long time, not worrying about anything other than wiping the smug smile off the face of the man who is making her feel like that. By any means necessary.

"I don't think Ms Price will appreciate us being late," Coulson starts complaining about the _any means necessary_."

Daisy twists her hand into his t-shirt.

"I think Rosalind will have to learn to readjust her expectations," she tells Coulson.

She's suddenly very glad she though _why not_ to begin with, last night.


End file.
